


The Case That Changed Everything

by KetamineKendra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gore, I'll add as I think of things, M/M, violent death crime scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KetamineKendra/pseuds/KetamineKendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on the hunt for a serial killer, Sherlock and John discover that there is more to their relationship than cases... </p><p> </p><p>As a warning, Reichenbach Fall makes me scream, so this is written in an AU where that never happened... </p><p>I'm awful at summaries. Promise, it won't be awful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was nine in the morning, and Sherlock already had John clenching his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth would crack. John had woken up to a gunshot in his house. Of course, it was eight in the morning and Sherlock had his gun. It had been a while since they had gotten a case, so he was _bored_. He had gotten up out of bed and in to the shower. A gun shot was not something to get excited over in this flat. He had only sighed and tried to figure out where to put his gun so that Sherlock could not get to it anymore. It was unlikely, but it was something that John really wanted to accomplish.

He washed himself and worried. What had been shot? Why did Sherlock have to wake him up so early? The man never slept, but he knew that John did. Was he going to find a random body part? Or was it going to be another hole in the wall? 

After his shower, he had come downstairs to make himself some tea. Sherlock was sitting in his blue dressing gown on the couch, apparently checking the site again for a case. John just sighed and began looking for breakfast. From the look on Sherlock’s face, there was no case. Another day of mutual aggravation was ahead. 

John was not really thinking and so accidentally opened the freezer instead of the refrigerator for his jam. He shut it. Then, he stopped and blinked a few times. He realized he need not have worried. He opened the freezer again. “Sherlock, why is there a head in the freezer?” 

“Experiment,” was the terse reply. 

John clenched his jaw. “I know that. What, specifically, are you doing with a head in our freezer and a bullet wound in its- his- forehead?” He shut the freezer again and grabbed his tea. Suddenly he did not feel like toast anymore. 

“I want to see how bullet wounds react to freezing over time.” Sherlock looked at him with a blank expression. John knew he was thinking that he was stupid, but only because he knew Sherlock. He was always wondering if people were stupid. 

_Dear God, give us a case soon. I’ll give him a bullet wound if we don’t get out of this flat soon_ , John prayed. 

The next few hours were spent with Sherlock further irritating John by just being himself, and John irritating Sherlock by not entertaining him. Finally, in a fit of irritation, John went to the grocery for a pack of cigarettes. He knew he had promised himself that he would enforce quitting on Sherlock, but he was driving him mad. When he arrived back home, John threw the pack at Sherlock. “Now bloody well shut up.” 

Sherlock smiled and went to get his lighter. A short twenty minutes later found Lestrade walking into the apartment. Sherlock sat on the window sill, his bare feet getting chilled in the early spring day. The window was down as far as Sherlock’s shoulder, so that his head and the hand holding the cigarette were outside of the flat. John pretended to read his newspaper, but his eyes nervously rested on Sherlock more often than on his paper. 

“Go away, detective inspector. John finally let me smoke.” Sherlock did not turn around to see who had entered; he just knew who it was. Lestrade took that to mean the combination of a dust mote and his day-old aftershave gave him the clue. Honestly, he did not fully understand the deductions that Sherlock made. He knew that he noticed things that others noticed, and things that they did not, but the connections he made were truly baffling. John seemed to be the only one who could follow him at all, and it was not very often. The most amazing thing was that sometimes Sherlock did not call John an idiot for his failures. 

Lestrade shook his head. He had things to do, and he did not need to get distracted. However, the look of gratitude John threw him made him wonder how mad things had gotten in the flat since the last case. He knew that Sherlock did not take idleness well. Perhaps it was a good thing he was coming to them now. He might have had to come here for an entirely different reason later. 

“Murder? Multiple murders?” Sherlock was now smoking inside, but John kept his criticism to one glare and turned back to Lestrade. Lestrade just stared at Sherlock. Why must the man take the wind from his sails? Here he was, about to ask for help, even opening his mouth, and Sherlock takes it from him. 

“Two, so far.” Lestrade decides he will get the last word. “Meet me at the crime scene.” With that, he walked down the stairs. If Sherlock is such a genius, he can figure out where to go, he thought. 

Sherlock dropped his cigarette out the window and leaped back inside. “Come along, John! We have a case!” He ran to his room to dress. John blinked for a second, wanting to tell Sherlock that he was not blind or deaf, and that he knew they had a case. However, Sherlock was about to become much more bearable to be around, so he did not want to continue with his irritation. Instead, he got ready to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock checked his phone for reports of noise, and then gawker channels for police activity. He triangulated the results with what would be considered in Lestrade’s district and found where they would find the crime scene. Then, he called a taxi. Eventually, he and John were dropped on a quiet little street. In front of one house, an unfortunate shade of yellow with brown trim, officials were arranged in the doorway and in the front yard, surrounded by yellow police tape. No one was throwing up, which was disappointing. It meant that it was not going to be an interesting scene. Sherlock was prepared to be disappointed until a younger officer rushed around the back of the house holding his hand to his mouth. People were vomiting, just not in view of the street. Splendid.

Once they entered the house, John stood back as Sherlock looked at the first body. The man was just to the side of the front door, wearing business clothes and a lot of blood. His grey blazer showed no sign of a defensive wound, so he must have been surprised by his attacker. “His attacker was strong, most likely a man, judging by the weapon used. He had no time to prepare for this attack.” 

John, seeing that Sherlock was finished, bent down to look more closely. He bent his head so as to see the wound without touching anything, and looked at the man’s viciously slit throat. “Sharp knife; probably long since I can see his bone in the back there.” 

Sherlock pointed at the blood spatter across the door and into the corner. “From the spatter on the wall here, the assailant was 167 centimeters tall with a decent range of motion in his arms.” For emphasis, he acted out the motion the killer would have used to so quickly and effectively silence the man. 

Lestrade just nodded and then pointed toward the back of the house. He obviously had not gotten Sherlock and John for this man’s death, though he was involved. Sherlock knew there was a second body, because this body would not cause others to vomit. Also, there were drops of dried blood leading into this room from another. He followed them and came to another body. 

This one was fascinating.

There were photos around the house, the dead man and a woman, his wife. If his wife had still been alive, she would have been crying into the arms of one of the people in front of the house. Because that was not the case, Sherlock was unsurprised to see the brunette from the photos on the bed. The woman was lying on her back, her hair in a bun and wet, as if she had just bathed. The bed under her was still made, but blood soaked. Her arms were tied to the posts with red marks around her wrists. Her legs were tied at the ankle to each other and then under the bed to the frame. Skin was lying in neat piles around her, because it had been removed from her stomach and legs. Rather expertly removed, in fact, because there seemed to be no muscle removed with it. 

Her abdomen had been split open from sternum to pubic bone, and then opened more completely. Her intestines were pulled out and tied into four separate knots. However, they were still attached to the body, just lying next to them to give access to the organs under them. One kidney had been removed, but the other was still inside, with the mesothelium partially cut away. “He was interrupted before finishing here, by the husband coming home.” 

Lestrade widened his eyes. “This is unfinished?” Sherlock knew he did not like the thought. 

“He intended to remove at least the other kidney, but more likely he was going to take out every organ in her stomach. There is no reason to remove only kidneys.” He looked closer at the woman’s face as he answered. The killer had to silence her somehow; no one could stay silent during this torture. She had not died until all the skin was removed. When she had died, most likely from blood loss, the man had probably already started removing her kidney. He found the residue of tape, probably that horrid silver grey stuff that killers seemed so fond of.

John was not in the room. He found him in the next room, his face whiter than usual. Apparently, he had not seen something so brutal before. Sherlock was merely fascinated. “We need to buy a pig.” At John’s incredulous look, he explained. “I need to do some experiments.” John continued to stare at him. Sherlock just blinked at him. 

“Will it already be dead?”

Sherlock did not see why it should matter, but he answered anyway. “Yes, I intend for it to be dead. Have you ever tried to slit a living pig’s throat? Much less skin it?” With that, he swept out of the house, already calling for another cab. He did see John’s face go even whiter. 

“You are not skinning a pig in the flat!”


	3. Chapter 3

John could not stop a smile from curving his lips when Sherlock got in the taxi, even if he was still afraid Sherlock would skin a pig in the flat. He did try to stop it, though. They were leaving the site of a bloody double homicide, one of which was horrific enough that he had not really wanted to examine it with Sherlock. John would have done it if Sherlock asked, but he was always doing what the darker man asked.

He got in the taxi after Sherlock had settled himself. By now, the doctor was used to the detective, his rambling on about experiments after a case was discovered. He also knew that Sherlock was not actually expecting him to listen. Instead, he lost himself in his own thoughts. 

Logically, he knew that he was largely superfluous to solving cases, at least mentally. Really, he only served as protection so that Sherlock did not get himself killed doing something remarkably reckless. Emotionally though, he knew he was needed. Besides the fact that Sherlock would terrorize anyone he tried to question and so needed John to smooth the way, John translated the world for Sherlock. For such an incredibly brilliant man, he was a complete idiot at times. He did not understand that wives cried when their husbands died, and cried harder when questioned about it. It did not necessarily mean that she had killed her husband. 

His eyes moved to Sherlock. The detective was looking out the window, no doubt cataloguing his knives to figure out which would make an identical cut on a pigs throat. His head was canted toward the window, revealing a line of pale neck above his scarf. John found himself fascinated by that small slice of flesh. Living with the damnably observant man had taught him to never look too long at anything, though. It had become second nature for him to get as much out of one look as he could and to look away as quickly as he could. That was exactly what he did. 

However, that image stayed in his mind longer than he would have liked. 

It was quite uncomfortable for him, but he had been noticing these things a lot lately. Not Sherlock’s neck, though he chuckled briefly when that thought brought vampires to mind. Sherlock looked at him and raised a brow, conveying his question without opening his mouth. John just shook his head and looked out his own window. 

A few days ago, Mrs Hudson had turned up the heat in her flat, and it had risen into theirs. John had been in jeans and a t-shirt already, but Sherlock wore his trademark pajamas and robe. Sherlock had been looking in the microscope, John reading the paper, when Sherlock let out a disgusted sigh. He had looked to the man, because that generally meant there was going to be a mess for him to clean up. Instead, he saw Sherlock peeling off his robe while still looking into the microscope. John had had trouble reminding himself to look away when static electricity stuck the robe to Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it up and away from a thin, pale hip before falling back into place. 

Earlier today, before John had gotten Sherlock his cigarettes, Sherlock had been sulking on the couch, as usual. But John had found himself noticing how long the man was, and how his flesh contrasted with the dark leather of the couch. There had been more to leaving the flat than simple irritation. 

Why would he suddenly notice these things, these _physical_ things, about his flatmate? It made no sense, because he had been dating rather frequently as of late. He dated beautiful, funny women that he interested him. If he was honest with himself, though, he knew that he kept his phone in his pocket at all times. He was always acutely aware of it, looking at it constantly to see if he had received a text from his detective. Did he need to get back to the flat? Was there something wrong? Sherlock usually texted him at least once per date. John was anxious if he was more than halfway through his date and it had not come. Which was probably a warning sign that he should not be with these women. If he was so sure that it was halfway over, keeping track of time in that way, was he really that interested? 

Before he could dwell on those thoughts, they arrived at a butcher shop. John rolled his eyes but followed Sherlock in, because he knew the man would do something drastic if he was not there. He would order a pig and then think of a dozen more experiments that needed a pig, and so he would order a dozen more. Sherlock could not be bothered to think of where to store them all. Not storing them would probably play quite nicely into his plans, actually.


	4. Chapter 4

John’s chuckle had distracted him from his thoughts. However, John had acted as if it were unimportant, so he had gone back to his calculations. Sherlock was simultaneously figuring how much money he had in his accounts and calculating exactly how long a knife would have to be before it would slice vertebrae at the back of the neck. By the time they arrived at the butchers, he had found that he had enough money to pay for six months of rent on 221C. He also decided that he would need at least seven inches of blade to score the back of a man’s throat, but he would use a larger blade on the pig because of the disparity of neck size between human and porcine creatures. 

The butcher shop smelled like coppery blood and cold air. The butcher behind the counter had large muscles in his arms, but his stomach hung over the top of his pants, making his apron hang oddly on his frame. He had hazel eyes and his sandy blond head was balding. When he thanked the customer before him, Sherlock stepped in front of him. “I need a pig.” 

The butcher blinked once, twice, before answering. “A pig? All of it?”

He raised his brows at the stupid man. The man was obviously mentally deficient, even more so than the average person. “That is generally what is meant when one says a pig.” 

“Alive?” The man seemed confused by his request, as if no one came to the man for livestock. Granted, they usually requested only parts of the livestock, but it was not that odd that someone would need a whole one. 

“If I needed a living pig, I would have gone to a farm.” Sherlock put his card on the counter for the butcher to take before he looked at John. He was prepared to explain to John exactly how incompetent the butcher was, but he was distracted by what he saw. John was looking at the selection of bacon, but he was standing exactly six centimeters closer to Sherlock than he usually would. Not a very large difference, perfectly within the usual range of proximity they usually exhibited. Sherlock was not sure exactly why he thought it interesting, but he filed it away in his capacious mind. 

After hearing the receipt print out, it was a new printer, but it made a sound when the paper was cut, Sherlock held his hand out to the butcher. After a bit more blinking on the part of the man, he handed Sherlock his card. “I need that delivered to 221B Baker Street, before the end of your business day.” With that, he swept out of the shop, crawling back into the taxi without waiting for John to exit. 

He was silent through the ride, rehearsing the conversation he needed to have with Mrs. Hudson. When they arrived, John shrugged as he made his way up the stairs, not bothering to remark on the oddness Sherlock was exhibiting in going directly to Mrs. Hudson’s door. Perhaps he did not think it was odd, Sherlock knew that the man very rarely observed properly. Oh, he was better than a lot of the people he had to deal with, but that did not put him on equal footing with the consulting detective. 

Mrs. Hudson answered her door after the first knock. She seemed surprised to see Sherlock at the door, but he smiled and she relaxed. “Mrs. Hudson, I seem to need a larger space for my experiments than I currently have. Would you be adverse to my renting 221C?” He knew, but was unlikely to admit, that he felt strongly towards his landlady. She was a sweet woman and someone that he actually appreciated being in the presence of. When she was not nattering on about silly things he did not care about. Like her stories on the television. Or her herbal soothers for her hip.  
“Well… Alright, then. But could you put plastic down then? I don’t think John will want to clean a second flat.” The woman had worry plain on her face. 

Sherlock grimaced but decided it was logical. “Of course. I’ll drop the payment to you later on.” 

He stepped back out of the building and hailed another cab, while his fingers flew over his phone’s keyboard.

> _Gone to the store.  
>  -SH_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had not come upstairs yet, but John was stopped from nervousness by his phone beeping. When he saw his text, he wrinkled his brows in confusion. Why on earth had Sherlock gone to the store himself? He always tried to make John go for him. He shrugged it off and went to make tea. 

He was watching crap television when he heard the downstairs door open. By the time he grew curious enough to investigate, he had heard two different doors open twice. Sherlock walked out of the outer door while John made his way to the stairs. He re-entered as John reached the ground. “What are you doing?” The detective was carrying an armful of tarps. 

“I have taken possession of 221C for the time being. Our apartment is far too small for skinning and gutting a pig.” He did not even stop when he said this, just continued to the door. He had come back up from depositing his tarps in the flat by the time John could think of something to say. 

“Will you be living there?” He was not sure why, but his voice sounded different when he said that. Why would it matter? John would actually probably have a better time of it if he were to live alone. No more noxious fumes from random experiments, no more bullet holes in the wall out of boredom. But if he could admit that to himself, why did his mind rebel at the idea that he could be alone in the flat? 

Sherlock had raised his brow at him, a favorite expression of his. “No.” That was the end of it, at least for the detective. Honestly, the doctor was pretty satisfied with leaving it there as well. “Come help me get the plastic up.” He walked down the stairs, never bothering to look back and see if John had followed him. It probably had something to do with the fact that John very rarely said no, in words or actions, when it came to Sherlock. 

He went down the stairs with the man, getting out the plastic and tape that he had in boxes. As he went to work trying to Sherlock-proof the flat, he thought about the infuriating man. 

John supposed that Sherlock was a magnet, and he was just a pin that got pulled in to the sphere of influence. The man was energy and a peculiar, unemotional passion. He was force of nature, a hurricane contained by pale skin and ever changing eyes. His hands were graceful and… Why was he thinking of his hands? 

He cleared his throat and occupied his mind with very carefully placing tape and tarp in a precise place to protect the carpet. John really needed to get out more. Without Sherlock. Lines that should be very clear cut and bold, thank you very much, were suddenly blurring and not where he expected them to be. 

They spent the next hour or so covering every surface multiple times in tarp and plastic. When it was done, John stood and looked at it. It might last a week with Sherlock. 

“I think my pig is here.” John had no idea where the observation had come from. However, the confusion jerked him out of thoughts of how quickly the earthquake that was his best friend could destroy some delicate balances. Before he could respond to him, however, the doorbell rang. Sherlock just smiled and dashed up the stairs, John following at a much more sedate pace. 

Sure enough, when he got to the top, there was man asking Sherlock to sign some papers. Obviously, he was not going to, so John grabbed them from him and signed himself. Sherlock was busy attempting to grab the pig-loaded dolly from the man outside. 

John really did not feel like helping the men get the pig down the stairs, and so he quietly slipped upstairs. He stretched out on the couch, knowing that Sherlock would be starting his experiment as soon as the pig was down there. The doctor seriously doubted that he would wait until the two men were gone before he started cutting open the pig. 

He had started to doze when Sherlock came in. He did not say a word to John, just went straight to his room and came back out carrying a leather duffel bag. When John grunted a question at him, “Knives,” was his only response. He exited the flat again, leaving John torn on the couch. Did he want to see how Sherlock was going to solve this problem? Did he want to chance blood getting carried back into the flat? 

It was that thought that decided him. He jumped up and ran to his own room, rummaging in the closet for the white coveralls he had convinced Lestrade to allow him to take home. He had originally gotten them in the vain hope that Sherlock would wear them and stop destroying his clothes during almost every experiment. It had not worked. Now, though, with the possibility of blood being brought into the flat, he hoped he could convince Sherlock to don them before his experiments and remove them before entering the flat. 

It was an unfounded hope, but John still treasured it as he brought four of the coveralls down to the lower flat. When he did enter the plastic enshrouded room, he breathed a sigh of relief. The consulting detective was simply laying all the knives out and had not started to actually cut into the pig yet. 

“Will you wear one of these? I don’t want blood in the flat. It would defeat the whole purpose of doing your experiments down here. Or, at least, the purpose it will serve me.” John held one out to Sherlock, hoping, praying, really, that the man would do it for him. 

With a sigh, Sherlock grabbed the thing and muttered as he pulled it on. When John saw him zipped in and covered up, he turned to go back up the stairs, but Sherlock coughed. “I need you to hold it steady.” 

John turned back to stare at the man. Sherlock, of course, was inscrutable. He sighed and started pulling on his own set of coveralls, all while staring at the pig.

His close association with the detective had hardened him to certain things, but he would not have thought that they had made him completely unaware of the obviously mad. He had barely registered its presence when he came down. The pig was suspended from the ceiling, through the rather grotesque expedient of a large, apparently sharp, meat hook through its skull. He swallowed and then looked back to Sherlock. He was staring at a wall, swinging a knife rather violently. It was more of a short sword in John’s estimation and he looked at how low the pig was hanging. He was definitely not going to just stand behind it. While Sherlock was brilliant, he did not always realize that not everyone would be willing to be hurt in the name of science. And John did not relish the idea of being scalped as Sherlock slit a pig’s throat. 

With one more disgusted sigh, John knelt behind and just to the side of the pig, his hands holding its cold and stiff legs. He devoutly wished he had remembered to grab the latex gloves he also had in his closet. He could feel coarse hairs beneath his hands, and no matter how many animals he had dissected through medical school, it was a sensation that made his stomach clench. He could not hope to explain that to Sherlock, though, and the man was impatient enough to start the experiment. He would not take kindly to John asking to run upstairs to grab them. 

John was about to go anyway, and damn the consequences, when Sherlock turned. His eyes were bright, the way they only were during a highly satisfying experiment. Then his hand was slashing through the air, bringing the knife with it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay, any of you still reading. Crunch time is not the best time to be attempting to write a new chapter.

The knife hit an almost leathery resistance in the previously frozen skin, but only delayed momentarily. It cut through muscle, trachea, and esophagus, and hit the spinal column with a rasp Sherlock felt rather than heard. When the blade sped out of the body, Sherlock wiped it across his arm to clean it of the blood.

While the butcher had been intelligent enough to give him an un-drained pig, he had not thought to give him one that had been freshly killed. This pig had been frozen, so the blood did not spurt, it oozed out and stuck to the blade like strawberry jam. John saw, and Sherlock assumed there would be a dearth of red jams in the flat for the foreseeable future.

He grabbed the torch that had been sitting on the table with his knives and shined the light into the wound. The bone was marred in a way that was consistent with the bone mark in the murdered man’s vertebrae. It was a bit more angular, however, so the murderer had used a knife that was duller. He must be quite strong to take a dull blade through the musculature of a man’s neck and score his bone with the speed that must have been used. 

John almost rose from his position, but Sherlock set his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t. I need to skin it.”

John sighed but sat through the experiment with only occasional sighs and glares at the detective.

When the pig was skinned, Sherlock had gleaned all the information he could from the experiment. He stepped back and stared at the pig. After a while, John stood and stared at him. “What?” The peeved detective asked.

With a shake of his head John stepped to the table and started unzipping his coveralls. “I was just wondering what you’re going to do with it. You can’t exactly throw it in a bin the way it is.”

Sherlock raised his brow. “I was wondering if you knew how to make pork chops, actually.” The snort he received for the answer made him smirk. “If you aren’t up to the challenge, I could always ask Mrs. Hudson.” He was stripping out of his coveralls with his back to John. As he did so, he wondered why he had agreed to put them on in the first place. He did not wear them when he went to crime scenes, but when John asked him to, he had not even thought of refusing. His brows creased as he thought.

The coveralls were off of him, but Sherlock was still covered in blood. Apparently, John had gotten poor quality garments. He grunted and then turned to walk to their flat. He may spend an inordinate amount of time covered in blood, but that did not mean he enjoyed it. His experiments were necessary, and he ignored the feeling when he could not avoid it.

John followed him up, obviously having the same thoughts about the garments as he checked his shoulders and chest. He had no blood on him, as he had been in a blind spot for blood spatter.

As soon as Sherlock had entered 221B, he started unbuttoning his blue silk shirt. He heard John suck in his breath but thought nothing of it until he had the buttons completely undone. “What are you doing? Sherlock, you have a bedroom. There’s even a bathroom. Why are you taking your clothes off in the living room?”

Sherlock slid the shirt off his shoulders as he turned to look at John. “You remove your jumpers when they are wet without first going to your room or the restroom. Why should this be different?” He turned back around and started walking to the bathroom. The blood had soaked through the shirt and onto his skin, leaving wet smears where the saturated cloth had rubbed.

“I’m not usually covered in blood!” John’s voice was slightly deeper than usual, so he must have been angry. Sherlock was not quite sure why. How was blood any different than rainwater? Aside from the obvious like erythrocytes and leukocytes and such. It was still mostly dihydrogen monoxide.

He put the thought from his mind as he shut the bathroom door behind him. He needed to think, and to shower. Both could be accomplished at the same time.

The perfect water temperature was achieved with one quarter turn of cold water and one full turn of hot water. He stripped the rest of his clothes off and pressed the button on the faucet. Sherlock had long since discovered the exact amount of time required for the water to heat proficiently. Once he was under the cascade of water, he set his body to go through the motions of showering and turned his mind to figuring out the killer.

The man was obviously educated, his knowledge of human anatomy showed that. The fact that he had kept the woman alive as he dissected her spoke of a sadistic nature. There was no remorse or guilt evident in either of the bodies, no hesitation marks or false starts. He had been brutally efficient from the very beginning of the woman’s murder, and had simply carried that over to the unexpected murder of her husband.

Figuring out the mind of his prey was a pastime that he enjoyed quite thoroughly. He did think of himself as a predator; he fit the definition. “Any organism that exists by preying upon other organisms” fit him rather well, actually. He existed to hunt criminals down, and knew that he would cease to exist if he were to stop. The fact that he considered it a hunt said they were the prey.


	7. Chapter 7

John swallowed convulsively as Sherlock walked to the bathroom. His back was quite captivating. Lean muscle played under smooth, pale skin. When the bathroom door cut off any further view, he shook his head. Nope, not right now. 

Anxiety welled up in his chest, and he rushed up the stairs to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him and then leaned against it.

Something was about to happen, something big. John understood himself enough to know that he had to think himself through this. If he didn’t, his mind would figure it all out and spring it on him inconveniently, as it had just a few seconds ago. 

Before that thought could go further, he shook his head again and walked to his bed. Under the bed, tucked against the wall, he kept a bottle of scotch. It was not hidden because he was ashamed of it; his sister may be an alcoholic, but John believed that alcohol could make certain situations much more bearable. Situations like his –

No. There has not been any drinking yet. 

John pulled the bottle out and grimaced. Of course Sherlock would have been in his bedroom and gotten his alcohol. There was only a bit gone, but it had been hidden so that Sherlock would leave it be. 

John stared at it for a moment, feeling that what was gone was quite needed right now. However, he made do with what he had. He didn’t bother using the old tea mug that was gathering dust on his bedside table. He simply removed the top and took a deep swallow. 

The liquid burned down his throat and settled into his stomach. A few more sips and he was ready to begin thinking. 

Well… Maybe a couple more sips. 

He waited for the alcohol to get a bit more into his system, thankful he had had an empty stomach. Usually, he would have eaten something first to avoid the quick drunkenness an empty stomach invited, but this was an emergency. 

John pictured Sherlock in his mind and a floodgate was open.

Long, pale fingers dancing over strings as manic notes reverberated through the flat. Skin peeked above a purple silk shirt. His legs drawn up as he sat in his chair like a gargoyle, blue dressing gown like a cape behind him, watching John drink tea and blog. The face he pulled when John would force him to eat. The way he gave himself completely to whatever happened to catch his attention, be it a case, music, eating. He stopped cases to be sure that John ate.

More sips as he thought deeper. 

The half-remembered dreams that woke him with an aching groin and the ghost of black curls under his hand. Terror when Sherlock didn’t come to his call during a case, wondering if he was going to see another friend bloody and lifeless on the ground. Relief when he stumbled into view with an expression of satisfaction. His coat collar turned up because it looked cool, and him refusing to admit it. Cheekbones like razors and wanting to touch to see if they would cut him. 

A pleasant dizziness swamped him as a tidal wave of realization thundered through his mind. He was attracted to Sherlock. More than attracted. The idea of Sherlock no longer being near him was enough to make him swallow a few more times. 

John looked at the mostly empty bottle in his hand and gave a wry grin, thinking that things had gotten out of hand rather quickly.

He swallowed the rest of it and lay back against his pillow, his face beginning to feel tingly. He had figured out that he was attracted to his best friend. The biggest problem lay in that, but it was not that. His best friend was a male. 

John really did not think that he was gay. He had never been attracted to another man in any way. The fact that he had seemingly passed attracted like a speeding car on a rain-slick highway was a bit of an adjustment to make. 

Never a man to deny the truth, John knew that he had to do something. He did not really want to deal with it just this moment, though, so he decided he just needed to get good and drunk. That state was going to be hard to reach right now, but he knew that there was a bottle of bourbon in the sitting room. Sherlock refused to use bourbon for experiments, something about the pH balance being screwy, so he knew that it should have remained untouched since Lestrade’s last evening over. 

With a solid plan of action, John was satisfied. He drew himself to his feet, making his head a little swimmy, and his feet didn’t seem to be where he left them. The trip down the stairs was a bit of a problem, but he managed by sliding his body along the wall and stepping quietly. 

He was almost derailed from his plan when Sherlock was in his pajamas on the couch, hands together and resting on his lips as he stared at the ceiling. John knew that he stared longer at those lips than he had trained himself to, but his drunken body was not listening to his inward screams to look away. Finally, though, he managed to peel his eyes away and stumble over to the bourbon. 

A nod to Sherlock as he passed and he was on his way back to his room. Once there, he dropped back onto the bed and continued drinking. Nasty stuff, bourbon. He never really liked it, but it was alcohol and he was not going to complain right now. 

The last swallow was sitting heavily in his stomach when his door burst open. “John, there’s been another murder.” The unholy glee on Sherlock’s face and the thought of the last scene made it so that the bourbon was no longer sitting, heavily or otherwise. He just barely made it to the bathroom as the alcohol made an exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, guys. My beta had crappy things happening, so I had to wait until she was ready.   
> Now that it's summer and I have no classes to go to, I plan to update this fic and/or a Supernatural one that I'm working on once a week. Every two weeks should be as long as you have to wait right now. 
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you think so far!


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock listened to John retching into the sink and was quite curious as to why the man was drunk. John never drank while on a case, like Sherlock never – willingly – ate or slept. The fact that he was definitely drunk, the smell of scotch and bourbon, think under the sickly sweet scent of stomach acid attested to that.

There really was nothing for it, so he waited for the other man to finish and then helped him to his bed. Once he was lying comfortably on his side, Sherlock grabbed a bin and lined it with a plastic bag. John would not like waking up to find he had vomited on his floor, so he had made it so that the doctor would not have to deal with that. 

John safely ensconced in bed, Sherlock collected his coat and his scarf and exited the flat, carefully locking the door behind him. When he showed up to the crime scene, Lestrade looked at him oddly, probably wondering why John was not behind him. Sherlock found himself curiously unwilling to admit to John’s unprofessional behavior, and instead just ignored the look.

He glanced around, finding a man weeping into the arms of one of the female police officers. Lestrade had lines radiating from his eyes and his mouth as he pursed his lips and looked tired. Darkness leached color from the scene, but Sherlock had no trouble finding where he was going. There were people looking positively green leaving a back bedroom from the house.

Another skinning, perhaps.

Sherlock was not disappointed when he entered the room. Plastic gloves were pulled on before he did anything, but he was beaming. This was interesting!

The murderer had been uninterrupted this time, and so the butchery was complete. This victim was a blond woman and had been dressed in a warm-up outfit. The fabric of it was under her and pushed to her ankles and wrists, as if the killer had cut them from her and then forced them out of his workspace. They were coated in blood under her.

Again, the killer had tied her to the bedframe in a manner that reminded Sherlock of a crucifixion. Also like the last time, the skin of the victim’s stomach and legs was sitting in neat piles arranged along her sides. She was split open the same way, and her intestines were tied into the same knot. Both of her kidneys lay near here, along with each lobe of her liver, separated. Her stomach was pulled out, but still connected to the intestines, and her spleen was still inside. Apparently, the killer had no use for it, because it was not lack of time that had left it inside her.

Her breasts had been disfigured with a crude drawing of a pig. That had been done last, because there was no evidence of bleeding around it, whereas the organs had had a bit. She had been alive probably until her liver was removed, though possibly only the second kidney.

The body had nothing more to tell him, so Sherlock started walking through the house. What was the connection between these victims? Both were women, obviously, but what more? He walked the rooms before finally stopping in the kitchen. The counter was littered with sacks of groceries. “Lestrade?” When the man looked in, Sherlock pointed toward the bags. “What was the previous victim doing the day she was murdered?”

Lestrade pulled a small black pad of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Uh… Says here her neighbor just saw her come home from shopping. Why?”

“Clothes shopping or grocery shopping?”

The detective inspector was not completely stupid, even if he employed Anderson. He saw what Sherlock was getting at. “Doesn’t say, but I’ll be going back over in the morning to see.”

Sherlock was satisfied with that answer, and swept out of the house and into a cab without bothering with goodbyes. Usually, he would have demanded that Lestrade go immediately to get the information and then spend all night going to every shop in the area to find where both women had been. However, John was throwing up at home, and Sherlock was… worried. 

He stood on the steps to the flat thinking that through. He decided that he was worried because John was a friend; the only one he could really count as one. He was somewhat fonder of Lestrade and Molly than he was of others, but John and Mrs. Hudson were the only people he would consider himself close to.

He let himself into the flat, listening in the silence for the sound of John. He heard it: the creaking that meant John was changing position. From the amount of alcohol he had imbibed, Sherlock assumed it was the first time since he had left the house.

The bullet wound experiment had not been checked out today, so Sherlock set about measuring and testing. He had just finished and set it back into the fridge when the stairs creaked. He turned, wondering what could have convinced John to get out of bed in the state he was surely in. John refused to meet his eyes as he made his way into the bathroom. The sound of water running and then spitting had Sherlock standing calmly outside of the door. He had thought John had gotten enough of the alcohol out of his system that he would not be getting sick again tonight.

The water was silenced and then John opened the door. His eyes widened and he let a soft grunt escape his mouth, surprised that he and Sherlock were suddenly separated by a hands breadth. “Sherlock.” John spoke it quietly, under his breath, so lowly that he would not have heard it if he weren’t so close. Sherlock smelled mint on the word and knew that he had brushed his teeth. He quirked his brow at John because he had not yet made a move to go around him, and that was out of character for the soldier.

John was avoiding his eyes. Why? Sherlock had seen John quite pissed so it could not be embarrassment over that. It was not like John not to look someone in the eye. “John? Are you alright?”

Instead of answering, John’s eyes were suddenly locked to his.

Sherlock should have seen it coming, because he always saw everything. When John’s mouth was suddenly on his, though, he just stood still, confused for the first time in a long time. He evaded the sensation of his fingertips tingling and that his heart accelerated. He tried to ignore the feel of John’s stubble on his chin and the fresh taste of mint that crept in when his jaw relaxed and his lips parted. It was hard to pretend that John had not put his hand behind Sherlock’s head, pulling him into the kiss.

He was not sure when his eyes had closed, or when he kissed back. He just knew that John pulled back and there was an unexpected look of panic in his eyes. John retreated to his bedroom, pulling himself loose and stumbling through the living room, leaving Sherlock wondering what had possessed him and why Sherlock had not seen it coming.


	9. Chapter 9

John lay in his bed, wondering what had come over him. He couldn’t prevent himself from recounting it in his mind, that game changing kiss. Bourbon, scotch, and bile had combined in his mouth to create a truly pestilential concoction. Sherlock had been safely ensconced in the kitchen as he made his way to the bathroom. John knew that he was not ready to face him so soon. He had brushed his teeth and rinsed, hoping the detective would stay in the kitchen, safely away from his route back to his bedroom. 

Things had gone to piss as soon as he opened the bathroom door to Sherlock being right there.

The door had opened. John had been looking down, so the first thing he saw was Sherlock’s hips. They were clothed, thank God, but John could see the way they jutted out under his clothes and knew that they would be pale and smooth and he could imagine exactly how they would feel if he pressed his hand against them. He knew that he would feel the hardness of bone without pressing down. He knew that it would feel as if he had his hand on a unprotected wire, electricity shooting straight up his arm and to his heart. He knew that he would remember the way it felt for the rest of his life, that he’d wake with it fresh on his mind for years to come. He did not know how to bridge the gap between them, to bring them to something other than too close but not close enough. 

Apparently, his brain had only been waiting for him to catch up before it made the tangle in him known. He wanted to run from Sherlock, as fast as his legs could carry him, but he wanted to grab him, shake him, scream his frustration and somehow have Sherlock understand and fix it. He knew he should step back, bring them back to flat mates and friends, but his body wanted to push them into the pit of lovers and loves. It was confusing and painful and far too hard to deal with when the man that was causing it all was in front of him. 

He knew that he had stood there, paralyzed with thought, for too long. Sherlock had spoken, and John had no idea what it was that he had said. He just knew there was enough alcohol still in his system that when the sound of his voice had touched him, feeling like it reached in and caressed his brain, he looked up.

Sherlock had his eyes focused completely on John. That was something that John was a bit unprepared for, even if his eyebrows were crinkled a bit in confusion. For some reason, John’s body used that moment to completely stop listening to his panicking mind. Or maybe it did listen, but not to the sane part he had been rooting for. His body had placed his lips on Sherlock’s and his brain had given up on trying to make sense of anything.

All he knew was that he pulled back after he felt Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth. It had been a shock to get what he had imagined. He had thought about it, pictured it, and now it was real. It was crisper, more intimate, more everything than he had imagined and it shut his brain completely down. His mind went no further than a scream that this couldn’t be happening and then seemed to turn into a confused animal. It just repeated the experience, trying to make sense of it, but never letting him move past it. 

Sherlock would never act that way. It was something he could not wrap his mind around, even if it was something he desperately desired. He wanted it to be real, because it made his blood pound in his veins and his head go fizzy, like the bubbles in champagne. 

He did not want it to be happening because it could destroy him so easily. It could shatter him, break him into a million pieces no amount of work could repair the damage. He’d be like fine china, all the pieces reassembled but never truly whole again. 

His bedroom was not as safe as he had expected it to be, but there was nowhere else for him to go. He certainly could not go back to the living room; Sherlock was sure to be there and he would probably ask questions, the incorrigibly curious man. John had no idea what answers he would give him and so he had to avoid the situation at all costs. To give answers, a man had to have them in the first place and John was completely out of them. All his mind would give him were questions and feelings and sensations replayed. 

Instead, he passed the rest of the night, fitfully dozing, sobering up, and wondering how he was going to get himself out of this situation. When eight struck, John gave up on attempting to sleep more and prepared himself like he was about to go into battle. He had been unable to deal with things on his own, and he was not ready to face Sherlock; he certainly wouldn’t offer anything but more confusion to the situation. Sadly, there really was no way to avoid him if he did not want to starve himself, though. Short of climbing out of his window and heading to a diner, anyway. 

Sherlock was on a case, and so he would assuredly still be awake. Hopefully, he would leave the situation alone and John could get breakfast and discuss the case and completely ignore how awkward things were sure to be. A part of him wanted to never think about it again, much less talk about it. There was also a part that made it quite clear that he would be revisiting that moment often, in his dreams and when awake. John knew he would probe it like a missing tooth, searching for every last bit of pain it could give him, hoping to somehow purge its power. 

He was hopeful that things would actually go his way until he stepped into the kitchen. Sherlock had his head and both arms in the refrigerator, reaching for something. John assumed that it was something he did not want to know about and instead put tea on while he fixed himself some toast. The kettle was screaming by the time he awkwardly found himself behind Sherlock. “Could you pass the jam?” He flicked the stove off and prepared his tea, completely aware that he might have to stand for a few more minutes before Sherlock would actually pass the jam. Most likely, though, he would just abandon the refrigerator and let him get into it himself.

He had the tea already sitting on the table and had come back for jam. About to ask Sherlock for it again, he noticed that it was sitting on the counter beside his toast. An odd look was sent to Sherlock but he did not waste time. He simply slathered it onto his toast and retired to the living room to eat it.

John could not help feeling awkward. His thoughts through the night must be written on his face for someone like Sherlock to read. He saw the infidelity of a man in the way that he walked and the drug addiction of a maid in the way she folded sheets. John’s snarled emotions and reckless actions must spell out the saddest of sonnets to him. He fidgeted in the seat while Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen. Finally, John broke the cumbersome silence permeating the air. “So? What’s developed with the case?”

Sherlock strode into the living room and began pacing, explaining about completely eviscerated females and crude artists. John tried not to let Sherlock’s words paint too vivid of a picture in his mind, but it was impossible. Sherlock delved into the details like a scuba diver in the ocean. The tea and toast in his stomach started feeling less welcome. In an attempt to not be sick twice in twelve hours, he cleared his throat to distract the detective. “Have you got any ideas on a suspect?”

Of course, Sherlock looked offended. He always had an idea as to who the suspect was. He didn’t even bother responding, just started getting ready to leave the flat. John jumped to follow him, because he was bound to do something hare-brained. He may be resigned to a tense situation, but that did not mean he would stop protecting him. He was the most important part of his life, after all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late guys. After the last chapter, this one just wouldn't flow for me. Eventually, my beta kicked me into gear, but it is a lot shorter than usual.

Sherlock pulled the black wool coat over his shoulders, and then fixed his blue silk scarf in a knot around his throat. It wasn’t quite cold enough outside to warrant them, but they were like armor for him. He needed them to do his job. The doorknob was cold and slick under his hand when he grabbed it. It was a doorknob unique to this flat, but also just like every other. 

 

Wool is obtained from sheep. Cashmere and mohair are obtained from goats, qiviut from muskoxen, and angora from rabbits. The four most important domesticated silk moths are _Bombyx mori, Hyalophora cecropia, Antheraea pernyi,_ and _Samia cynthia_. Doorknobs are most commonly made with brass.

 

He heard John sigh before the creak of the chair proved he would follow. It seemed he always did what Sherlock asked, even if it came to fighting. He never hesitated to follow Sherlock over roofs or down dark alleys. He had never shied from anything that Sherlock had asked. 

 

A sigh is air pushed through the larynx without active use of the vocal cords. It takes 302 muscles to stand. Loyalty, noun, meaning a faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc. 

 

Sherlock was already hailing a cab when John joined him on the curb. When he said he needed to visit the butcher shop again, John stared at him for three seconds before rolling his eyes.

 

There are more than 19,000 registered taxis in London. Butcher shop; Boucherie; Slagterbutik; Slagerij; Metzgerei; Macelleria; мясника магазин; Carnicería. Eye rolling most often means holding the previously viewed object in contempt, but can also indicate annoyance or dismissal.

 

The ride was too warm; the temperature completely out of proportion to the amount two men should create. Sherlock leaned against the window, pressing the cool glass to his forehead.

 

On average, a person creates 116 Watts of heat in an hour when awake. Glass is thought to have been first made in Mesopotamia in 3500 BC.

 

Finally, the taxi pulled up to the shop. He asked that he wait for them, because it wouldn’t take long. However, when he got out of the vehicle, John did not immediately follow. “Are you coming?”

 

John gave yet another sigh, and surely the man must be getting sick of such an ineffective way of communicating. He did, however, extract himself from the taxi.

 

The sign above the shop door was as he had remembered - a crudely stylized pig above the shop name. Inside, the same lackwit was behind the counter. His build was completely wrong for the violence that the murders were committed with. The killer would be tall and muscular. This man held his hands loose and had problems gripping - a sure sign of arthritis. Arthritic hands could never have done such delicate work as removing organs. The knots around each woman’s limbs would have had this man crying in pain.

 

John stood at military attention, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders straight; his gaze roaming around the shop and never quite reaching Sherlock. 

 

He plastered a smile across his face when the man looked at him. It appeared to work because there was no recognition in his face. “I was wondering who carved your delightful sign? I’m in the market for some interesting carvings and I am quite captivated by yours.”

 

The man smiled, filled with pride. “My son did it. He’s in the back, lemme get him up here for you.” The man was still smiling as he stepped around to the back of the store and ducking through a door marked ‘Employees Only’. After a few moments, he came back with, presumably, his son in tow. The younger man was not fat like the butcher, his body muscle bound and thick. His posture was proud and erect.

 

This man could easily be the killer.

 

“Stephen, this is the man asking about your carving.”

 

Stephen smiled, but his eyes kept darting between Sherlock and John. John just looked him in the eye, but Sherlock smiled and praised him on his skill, asking for estimates and ideas as he observed the way the man moved.

 

Finally, Sherlock had ‘agreed’ to purchase a carving of a mermaid in the coming weeks, and John followed him out of the shop. A quick text to Lestrade completed the mission, and Sherlock dropped his smile. John joined him in the taxi for a silent ride home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait guys. Life and its stupidness has gotten in the way yet again.

The ride was quiet, so quiet that the sound of Sherlock’s phone vibrating was clearly audible. Whatever he read on the device had Sherlock brooding. It kept up until the two of them entered the flat. Then, Sherlock went to his room, leaving again almost immediately. John saw a slim black leather case being pushed into his coat pocket. He knew that it held lock picks and he knew what that meant.

Just the thought of a chase through the night had John’s heart beating faster. He knew he couldn’t join him, though. Not tonight. Not after the disaster that was last night. Not after today. John had thought he didn’t want Sherlock to ask about it, and he was still sure of that. He didn’t think that this was a better option, though. Sherlock wasn’t avoiding it; he almost acted like he had deleted it. Of course, John was still so confused by it all that he couldn’t bring himself to ask. The thought hurt, though. Had he thought the kiss and its ramifications so inconsequential? 

He hated how he became so aware of his body every time Sherlock was near. He hated his newfound desire to kiss Sherlock whenever he was thinking, just to see if he could distract the man. He wanted to have the same power over Sherlock as he had over John. He hated that Sherlock seemed to be acting the same way he always did on an interesting case and ignoring John. He only seemed to need the doctor as a sounding board, like he was a convenient lackey and easily ignored. 

He was beautiful in his earnestness, though, and John couldn’t deny it. His long fingers played across his coat, looking graceful but ill at ease. John always thought of them as they were on the nights Sherlock played. They danced across the violin, pulling notes from it like an exacting lover. His neck was a pale column above the scarf and it gave John a mental image of himself tasting it, wondering if salt would underlay the sweetness of skin. His eyes were striking, as they always were. Even if they didn’t shine with brilliance, they had a captivating color. 

John shook himself from his thoughts. This was no way to think after all that had passed. 

He needed distance from the case. More importantly, he needed distance from the man in front of him, an expectant look on his face. “Will you come with me? Lestrade has said that his size and carving skills are not enough for an arrest, so we need to look into his home.”

John shook his head. “I’m going out tonight. You go, tell Lestrade what you find. And, please, do not get yourself arrested.”

Sherlock scoffed. “This is important. Your hormonal need for orgasm can wait. I need you to come with me.”

Instead of addressing that middle bit – he really did not want to discuss that at this moment – he sat down. “I am not going with you, Sherlock. Go break into a strangers home on your own.” Of course, the detective didn’t take that well.

“Fine.” He yelled as he walked to the door. He opened it and then looked at John. He looked about to say something, his mouth open and his eyes fiery, before he shook his head and stalked out of the flat.

John grabbed a pillow and screamed into it, his knuckles turning white from the pressure he applied. He wanted to hit Sherlock for being so oblivious, but he wanted to kiss him until he understood. The confusion made him wonder if he would ever be okay again. It roiled in his stomach, souring his outlook. Distance was the only cure he could think of. 

He had told the truth. He did intend to go out tonight. One part of him wanted to find a pliant woman to bury his anger inside of. Another part wanted to find a man to experiment with his new interests. Another part just wanted to get abysmally drunk and forget about it until tomorrow.

He sighed and put the pillow down, ready to shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real interesting shit happens in the next two chapters. Hope you like it. :]


	12. Chapter 12

The street was quiet and echoed with his footsteps. His mind came to the erroneous assumption that he was alone in the world before a sick feeling in his stomach stopped him. He needed to think it through and so he detoured into the park on his way to the butcher shop. The bench was cool and slightly damp under his trousers.

 

When had this feeling started? When John had said he would not come. Was that the problem? Did he think that John would leave? No, John was loyal to a fault so he would stay.

 

He had said he was going out. John always went out looking to pull someone when too many relationships had failed, when Sherlock felt he thought himself a failure. Random gratuitous sex seemed to help with the feeling, but Sherlock wondered what relationship could have failed. His dating lately had been casual. 

 

It took longer than he would admit to realize it was a relationship between Sherlock and John. It was John’s fault, though. Sherlock was perfectly content with the relationship they already had. Adding feelings and sentiment would only complicate matters too much.

 

No, it was good that John was going out with another woman. That would make things less complicated.

 

There was, however, a chance that John would not attempt to pull a woman. He may wish to test his newfound homosexual attractions, see how far they would take him. Of course, John would surely follow the same rules he had with the women and go to his temporary partner’s home. John had always been a conscientious flatmate, unlike Sherlock himself. Sherlock, however, did not take part in sexual dalliance. 

 

In either case, Sherlock had no reason to be bothered and so he was not. 

 

Sherlock ignored the tight, unpleasant feeling that refused to leave as he resumed his journey to the butcher shop. Everything could be figured out after the case was solved. The matter was left with the bench. 

 

There was a flat above the shop, one with the last name of Collins on a plaque. It made sense for the butcher and his son to live near the shop. 

He knocked on the door, expecting there to be no one there because of the lack of lights, but not willing to bet. He did not know the inhabitants enough to deduce their habits, and preferred to not end up in jail tonight. John would be out by now; it had taken him two hours to get here with his stop in the park. Lestrade would lecture him about breaking into flats and waiting for New Scotland Yard to do its job before haring off on his own.

 

Sherlock would ignore him, of course.

 

Instead, he waited two minutes before knocking again. Another minute later, and he was inserting his lock picks. The lock was laughably easy to pick, taking forty five seconds, and that only because he grabbed the wrong pick the second time he reached for one.

 

The flat was dark, but most flats in London followed one of three basic layouts and he knew which he was in as soon as he ascertained the placement of the light switch. He did not turn it on, of course. He pulled the torch in his pocket out and flipped it on, making his way toward anything that looked like a bedroom.

 

Anyone as awkward as Stephen had been probably did not live on his own, and Sherlock found he was right when he stepped into the second bedroom. There was general disarray in all areas except the desk in the north corner. He obviously cared about the organization in that area meaning it was important to him. Any evidence Sherlock would need to convict him would be found there.

 

A lamp. Magazines for carving fanatics. Pens and drawings of carvings, even one of the mermaid that Sherlock had requested. It would probably look nice if Stephen ever had a chance to make it. However, he would not, because Sherlock had every intention of having him in police custody before the night was out. 

 

There was absolutely nothing of interest in any of the drawers until he started tapping on the bottoms of them. One of them had a false bottom. It was child’s play to find the mechanism that released it. Inside, he found a small leather bound book and two locks of hair. From the looks of them, they were from the two female victims.

 

That was enough to give to Lestrade, but he was curious about the book. It was a journal, with details of the murders. The first two started with observations of the women before degenerating into rape and murder fantasies. It was odd that there had been no sign of rape on the women, but perhaps he only needed to murder them to feel that he had raped them.

 

Both entries had dates. The first entry had two, the first of which was crossed out. The untouched date was the same as when the body had been found. The same was true of the date on the second page.

 

After the date was a rather detailed breakdown of each murder.

The third page was slightly different. It was difficult to decipher because none of the entries had had names or even sexes written.They had only been easy to understand because Sherlock had already had the information. This entry was only half completed, the last thing being the date.

Sherlock voraciously started figuring out the entry when he realized the date that was listed was tonight’s.

Blond, short.  
Blue eyes.  
Military?  
Travels with S.  
Tension – May be alone soon.  
Visited today.  
Catching on. End now.

 

He slammed the book down. “John!”


	13. Chapter 13

John sighed and rested his head in his hands. He tried to calm himself and convince himself that everything would be okay. He wanted to believe that everything would work out in some way that didn’t leave his heart broken. 

He didn’t quite believe it, though. 

He saw nothing but more of the same. Sherlock would never return his feelings because he didn’t operate on the emotional level. Sherlock was completely analytical. Asking him to feel emotional about something was asking for a disaster. 

It was extremely inconvenient that the first time John developed feelings for a man, it was one as emotionally stunted as Sherlock. Just the fact that John had feelings for a man was enough to throw him for a loop. The fact that it was Sherlock, a man that thought murder was fun and kidnappings were boring, was enough to make him want to re-evaluate his life. John had always seen himself settling down with a quiet woman with a wicked sense of humor and a desire for a house full of children. Instead, he had seemingly fallen for a man that lacked social graces. And the thought of Sherlock around a child was almost terrifying. Obviously, John had just proven that what you want is not always what you need. And it was possible that neither of those things were what he was going to get. 

John suppressed a shiver at the idea of holding Sherlock the way he had always imagined holding his wife. 

If Sherlock’s reaction to the kiss was anything to go by, he might as well save himself the trouble, though, and move on. John couldn’t see himself meaning anything more to Sherlock than a skull that spouted compliments. Sherlock couldn’t possibly think he would be worth any amount of trouble, because he was so ordinary. Sherlock had said so himself. 

Sherlock needed excitement and mental stimulation like an alcoholic needed the booze. John was not nearly enough to keep the man interested. He should just find some other person to reciprocate his feelings. 

Sitting in his chair in their flat was not going to accomplish getting over him, though. He stood and went to the bathroom. A hot shower before a night at the pub was what was needed. 

John lost himself in the comfort of the warm water rushing down his body. He did his best to ignore fantasies of a long, lean body pressing against him in the liquid heat. He wasn’t completely successful, but he didn’t have to admit to it.

He was jolted back to himself when he heard the click of the door closing. John remained still, some instinct keeping him wary. It was far too soon for Sherlock to have returned. Mrs. Hudson rarely showed up in the flat after dark, preferring to rest early and rise with the dawn. Mycroft wouldn’t show up when Sherlock was absent. Lestrade would have announced his presence. 

The shower turned off with a subtle squeak. In the absence of sound, he heard a step taken onto a creaky board and then silence. 

A soldier doesn’t survive long without fast thinking skills. John used his training to catalogue everything that could be used as a weapon in the bathroom. There wasn’t much, since he tried to minimize the potentially hazardous implements around the flat for fear of the experiments Sherlock could conduct with them. 

In the end, he chose to ignore his nakedness and grab the shampoo bottle in his left hand. In his right he gripped the toilet plunger just above its rubber base. His plan was to surprise the intruder and squeeze the shampoo into his eyes, then attack with the plunger until he could get to the kitchen. 

John only got to take two steps toward the door before his plan was ended. 

The door flew open, John squeezed the shampoo bottle. His aim wasn’t true because he was too surprised by the identity of his attacker. 

In image of a rapidly descending cricket mallet gave way to darkness. 

 

Searing agony in his stomach woke him. Coarse fibers on his tongue and lips spoke of a rope in his mouth. He felt the roughness across his cheeks and an echo of it on his wrists and ankles. Softness covered his groin and legs. Knots pressed into his skin hard enough he knew he’d bruise – if he lived. 

The pain got worse as John forced his head up. What he saw almost had him passing out again, but he forced himself to remain conscious. Even with his iron will, he had a hard time breathing. 

Stephen was cutting into his stomach, the skin parting under a sharp blade. Stephen’s face was serene as blood ran down John’s belly. “You’re not my usual type, you know. I prefer women.” After the cut was long enough, from his sternum to his pubic bone, Stephen smiled and set the knife down. 

John tugged on the ropes, hoping for enough slack to get out of them and get the weapon that now rested against his leg. The knots just buried themselves more securely into his wrists. Stephen’s finger ran along the cut a few times, then he pressed and he was running his finger across the muscle underneath. John couldn’t help the small whine the escaped him. 

After a few seconds spent touching the muscle, Stephen resumed cutting, first the right side of his cut was widened and then sliced off completely. Then the left side. John fought to remain conscious, but it didn’t quite work. He felt black take over his vision and then came to as Stephen started cutting into his muscle. John couldn’t fight the screams anymore. He screamed with every breath, only stopping long enough to draw a new one in. 

The rope made them practically silent, of course. Stephen calmly talked over them. “Sherlock has been getting too close. I have to do something before he sends me away, because of course he will. I just want to take something close to him away first.” 

John felt a cut starting – this time against the muscle grain and more painful for it – when blackness rushed to envelope him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock knew the distance between them had not changed in his time inside the flat. It was physically impossible. However, he felt as if it took twice as long to make his way back home. Lengths of sidewalk he had leisurely sauntered over before were madly run over now. The park passed in a blur as he ran as efficiently as he could. Cabs passed but he had no patience to call for one. He almost regretted debugging the flat. Mycroft would have sent someone as soon as a stranger was in 221B. 

When he finally arrived at the flat, he scaled the steps two at a time and tried to open the door. It was locked, and Sherlock had no patience for keys. With a grunt he slapped it then stepped back a pace. The heel of his right foot slammed into the door just under the lock. With a splintering sound, the door flew open and Sherlock was admitted into his home. 

Within seconds, Stephen was in view in Sherlock’s bedroom doorway. His face was calm, with only a glint of madness around the eyes. “You’re supposed to let me finish.”

He had not realized how worried he had been that John would have already been dispatched. Stephen’s words meant that he was alive. Adrenaline surged through his system as the other man turned back to John. He had reversed his grip on his knife and now held it pointed down. He was prepared to stab John in the chest. 

Sherlock reacted without thinking it through. His right foot shot out at Stephen’s ankles, sweeping them out from under him. His hand grabbed his wrists, fighting for control of the blade. With a grunt, Stephen hit the floor and Sherlock made sure he was on top of him, straddling him and grinding his hand against the carpet, desperately using nails in the soft spots between bones. He had to let go of the knife. 

With a curse, Stephen let go, but began bucking beneath him. The larger, more muscular man would not be contained for long. With his right fist, Sherlock punched him in the face twice – once in the jaw and once in the left temple. His eyes glazed before closing, and Sherlock waited to be sure he really was unconscious. It would be terrible to fall for a coup with John’s life in the balance. 

Stephen did not revive, and Sherlock lost precious seconds ascertaining that he was alive.

He stood, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock dialed Lestrade’s number from memory. Impatiently, he waited for an answer as he checked John’s pulse. It was thready, but still going under his fingertips. When Lestrade finally answered, Sherlock did not bother with pleasantries. “Send paramedics and a competent officer to 221B immediately.” He had no time to wait for his answer, so he rung off and then prepared to staunch the flow of blood from John’s injuries. He started by bundling the sheet that was covering John’s nakedness over his bleeding stomach. When that was done, he pulled the second sheet from the corners of the bed, rolling it down John’s back, careful to keep it bunched under his abdomen and to keep the two piles of skin on the bed. 

John did not move until Sherlock had started tying the sheet around him. He woke with a scream, the reason Sherlock had left the rope around his mouth. When the scream had ended, John was looking at him. “Help is on the way, John. I have to cut these ropes now.” 

The knife that was generally kept in his bedside drawer was easily sharp enough to cut through the ropes. He took care of them, keeping a thought in mind. He was careful to cut the rope into still usable lengths. When he was sure that John was well enough to lay on his own, he was pale and sweating, clenching his jaw to combat the pain, Sherlock rolled Stephen to his stomach and tied his arms efficiently.

Just as sirens could be heard in the street, Sherlock grabbed the skin and brought them to the kitchen. He layered ice in a bowl and put the skin in the middle of it. There was a chance it could be reattached, saving John from a skin graph. 

He had just finished when the paramedics entered the building. He rushed into the bathroom for a large towel and insisted on wrapping it around John’s hips before they laid him on the gurney. John still had not spoken more than a curse when they had bundled him into the ambulance. The bowl of skin and ice was handed to a paramedic who paled when told what was in it.

Lestrade himself pulled up as the ambulance hurried away. He looked after the receding lights before giving Sherlock a questioning glance. “John. The murderer is currently tied up in my bedroom.” Lestrade strode into the house, having to soothe an almost hysterical Mrs. Hudson before he could make it up the stairs. 

“Was this you or him?” He asked as he looked at the splintered wood in the door frame. 

“Me.” Sherlock pushed past him into his bedroom, just in time to hear Stephen grunt. He was coming around and looked extremely unhappy. 

Lestrade arrested the man and walked with him down the stairs. When he had locked him into his back seat, the older man turned back to Sherlock. “I’m going to the hospital after I drop him off. Would you like to ride with?” 

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. “No, thank you. I’ll be around later.” Lestrade gave him another look. He just raised his brow. “Mrs. Hudson will wish to know what happened.” The detective inspector nodded and then got in the car and drove off. Sherlock watched his tail lights disappear before turning back into the house. Mrs. Hudson was crying, and it took an hour to calm her down. By that time, Mycroft had shown up, his face tight and drawn. 

Sherlock refused to speak to him, just bundled himself back into his coat and hailed a cab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys! My beta couldn't get to it in time, so this is actually unbeta'd. Also, I'm sick and have been doing nothing but watching netflix and laying on my couch, with the occasional bout of tears and tea.


	15. Chapter 15

Sand blew through the air, stinging his skin where the sun hadn’t rendered it numb and impervious to the elements. The sunlight reflecting off the sand was almost blinding, but he had grown accustomed. Months in the desert weather had made him regard it in the same way he would have a rainy day in London – just another day.

His vision shifted. Blood mixed with the dust of the road, creating a macabre mud beneath him. Something was wrong though. The searing pain that had been his left shoulder in his memory was now an agonizing, gnawing pain in his stomach.

The familiar desert scene was replaced with a crisp white ceiling and an antiseptic smell. Soft beeps met his ears as John woke. He was alone in a hospital room, the bed beneath him soft.It was actually softer than it should be. John had been in plenty of hospitals, but this one was a bit different from them all. Or at least the quality of his surroundings was.

Even the white paint on the walls and ceiling was different. Instead of the plain matte paint he knew, it was a shining ivory color. The blanket pulled over him felt like it had a higher thread count than the usual, it was soft whereas usually it would feel grating. There was no sound of a busy hospital slipping past the door, just the beeping of a heart monitor behind him. If he could ignore the incessant beeping, he could almost imagine he were in someone’s home.

He remembered the evening, all the way up until he was shut into the ambulance. If he had been himself, he wouldn’t have fought the placement of an oxygen mask. The paramedics were obviously hoping to stop shock from setting in. He was already breathing too hard and too fast and his hands felt clammy. If he went too much further, his heart rate would rocket and he’d lose more blood.

The sheet around his stomach was already starting to leak; he couldn’t afford to lose much more blood.

He was feeling agitated, though he forgave himself for that. Someone had just tried to gut him, so agitation was a completely understandable reaction.

The ride to the hospital was as smooth as could be expected, but the small movements he felt were searing agony in his stomach. He lost consciousness somewhere near the halfway point, he thought.

Now, he shook his head to shake himself out of the memories. He was awake and blurrily aware in an eerily luxurious hospital room. He peered under the collar of his gown to see his stomach wrapped in bandages. The pain was less than it was, so he assumed his IV was attached to a pain killer instead of just a saline drip.

Eventually, he ran out of things to distract himself with. John had to face the fact that he was alone in a hospital room. He wanted to think that he was in intensive care and so wasn’t allowed visitors. It was a stupid thought, though. If Sherlock wanted to be here, it wouldn’t matter. He would be in this room pacing and cataloguing the inadequacies of the staff.

He wasn’t.

John lay back and turned his face to the wall. There were two windows in the room, one close to him and one on the other end of the room. It was a dreary, rainy day, the sky overcast and grey. It fit his mood pretty well.

Hadn’t he already gone over this, before the attack? Sherlock rescuing him meant nothing special. Just that Sherlock didn’t want to do away with the only person he’d considered a friend in a long time, possibly forever.

For a moment, John’s mind remembered Sherlock bursting into the room. He hadn’t hesitated as he attacked Stephen. He had appeared completely calm as he knocked him out and then worked at freeing John. Sherlock hadn’t seemed to be worried about John at all, actually. 

The thought was painful to John. 

There really was nothing to do. He’d just have to heal up as quickly as he could, and then move on. Maybe he could find a new flatmate in a new flat. He could still work with Sherlock, he just couldn’t live with him anymore.

Maybe he shouldn’t solve crimes, though. Spending time with Sherlock, any amount of time, would not get him over this ill-advised longing.

His head got fuzzy after that decision. He did his best to focus on the rain outside of the window. Just as the door clicked open, he slipped into sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock walked into the hospital knowing that Mycroft had ensured the best of care for John. As often as John stood up to Mycroft, the older man still respected and even liked the army doctor. There were only two people other than John that could actually make Mycroft give a genuine smile, and he did it more frequently than Althea or Sherlock. 

No, he would not be in the common areas, but on the top floor in one of the private rooms. As such, he made his way directly to the private elevators in the back, instead of bothering with a room check or any other trivial detail. 

He was forced to bully his way through the nurses and then the security guards he came across. They foolishly expected him to follow procedure – checking in and waiting to be admitted and other rot – as if he cared at all about the rules. They should know by now that he did not care even in ordinary circumstances. 

They finally left him alone when the receptionist called them back after having received a call, presumably Mycroft informing them of who he was, and he was free to ride to the top. Once the doors opened and he exited to the posh hallway, though, he was strangely reluctant to move on. Sherlock paced the corridor for an interminably long time, curious at his sudden hesitation. 

The hall was empty and silenrt, with no rushing doctors, so Sherlock knew things had gone well. John was surely recovering in the one room that sported a closed door. 

He was perfectly safe, now. He was recovering from his grievous injury, presumably well. 

Sherlock realized this was why he was so unwilling to enter. He did not want to break that serenity. 

He had seen the journal entry Stephen had intended to finish tonight. Stephen had only targeted John because of his association with Sherlock. If John had entered that shop with anyone other than the detective, he would be at a pub tonight, drinking and trying to pull. Instead, his body was busy building scar tissue and recuperating lost blood. 

It was not the first time that his friendship with the detective had landed him in the hospital, and it was extremely unlikely to be the last time. While John had always provided something important to Sherlock, something hard to define but easily felt, Sherlock had only managed to pay that back by exposing him to unnecessary danger. 

Sherlock felt his mind centering on what could have happened if Sherlock had not been there. If he had been much later, John would have bled to death. In his bed. He would have caught Stephen, of course, but John would not have been there to notice. He would be placed in a grave, shiny black headstone and all, with only an alcoholic sister and a sociopath flat mate to visit. 

The symbolism behind that would have been strangely apt to the situation. John had become Sherlock’s friend, which put him into danger. It had always been dangerous and possibly fatal to John, but he had always stayed by him. 

It was fitting, in a dark and morbid kind of way, that he should apparently develop deeper feelings before being almost murdered in Sherlock’s bed. 

The thought of John’s deepened feelings did strange things to Sherlock’s mind. He was fascinated by the idea that John was attracted to him, but he was also uncomfortable with it. If John were to get close, Sherlock would no longer be alone. He was not sure that he could even reciprocate the feelings, even if he had some idea how to not be alone anymore. 

His mind was becoming disorganized and impossible to manage. He had to order his thoughts. The most logical thing to do would be to start at the beginning. 

Very early in their partnership, John had inquired about his relationship status. Sherlock had first taken this to mean an interest, but had revised his theory to reflect curiosity when John had so profusely defended his heterosexuality. 

Curiously, though, Sherlock had no recollection of John actually calling himself such. He had only maintained that he was not homosexual. Perhaps he was neither. 

Now that Sherlock knew the probable reason behind the actions, he recalled the oddities that had marked John’s behavior over the last few months. Increased time spent pursuing personal hygiene in the shower and prolonged observation of the detective. He had also seemed to be completely unaffected by the women he dated. John never had anything much to say about the women. 

The next logical observation to make was completely obvious, even to an idiot. 

John had kissed him. Unconsciously, Sherlock moved his hand to his lips, phantom sensations playing across them. In the confines of his own mind, he could completely analyze it. He had been afraid to breathe, wondering if it would break the sensation and if that was what he wanted. He had wondered if he should move his hands, where to put them, what to do with them. He had been completely out of his depth with no idea how to handle the situation. 

Would Stephen have had the opportunity if that kiss had not been broken?

That thought forced Sherlock out of his revelry. The dream of mint on his tongue turned to ash and Sherlock pulled up short in the hallway. The elevator dinged and a nurse walked out, her world still orbiting completely normally as Sherlock felt as if his had suddenly started spinning backward. 

Sherlock did care about John, the man he could see sleeping through the opened door as the nurse checked on him. He cared and he had no idea what to do about it. Was it simply caring or was it more? Sherlock felt differently about John than he did about anyone else but that could be anything from deep friendship to platonic affection to love. The uncertainty was almost frightening in its daunting size. 

He just knew that he could not give in to the feeling, whatever it may be, because it would only lead to more danger for John. And John needed to be protected.

The nurse left as Sherlock steeled himself to enter the room. John seemed to be peacefully sleeping, though his heart rate was a bit more rapid than it should be. For a moment, he just stared at the sleeping man, but he shook himself soon. Then, he bent and placed a small kiss on John’s brow. 

Seconds later he was standing in front of the elevator, wondering what had prompted his actions. As it dinged, he decided he had been infected with sentiment.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I'm the giantist dick on the planet, I know. I really really am. 
> 
> I'm sooooooooo sorry! There's really nothing I can do to explain how sorry I am, but I'm hoping that my finishing this story will help a little in making people forgive me. 
> 
> Beh. Probably none of the original readers are even still here. Oh, well.

John woke to nurses changing his bandaging and getting him a new IV bag. He stayed awake, staring at the wall, fighting past the sleepiness the drugs forced on him. He managed it, and when the nurse came in again he asked for his phone. Usually he was told that he couldn’t have it but apparently his status here was beyond that. The nurse returned a few moments later with his phone tucked into her hand. 

While he had been sleeping, and more so when he was awake again, he had come to a conclusion. John had never been a man that allowed circumstances to force him in any direction. He stood up for himself and went after what he wanted. It didn’t matter that Sherlock was distant and apparently unreachable. John had not gone through some latent homosexuality crisis just so that he could skate away and go back to being a robot. 

John turned the phone on, waiting impatiently while it brought itself to working order. Then he sent Sherlock a text.

> Where are you?
> 
> JW

Sherlock was just going to have to sit and listen to him. He was going to have to hear all the reasons why he couldn’t distance himself from John.

The major flaw in this plan was, of course, it would be impossible for John to hunt Sherlock down for the foreseeable future. He wasn’t even allowed to walk himself to the bathroom, much less leave and run about all of London looking for a mad genius. Instead, he would have to be patient and hope that Sherlock came back to him. 

Sherlock wasn’t responding, so John decided to send a few more texts.

> I know you know where I am. Come here.
> 
> JW

> I’m serious, Sherlock. Come here.

Finally, he had to admit that it was up to Sherlock now. At least until he was healed enough to leave. Then, if he didn’t show up, John would just have to hunt the bastard down and make him listen. 

John waited patiently, as he only ever had on long-distance reconnaissance missions. What he was planning to get on the other end made this wait more tenable, however. He knew Sherlock would try to convince him that his current – and permanent – decision was a bad one, but John would let him know that this was what was best. The only thing that was in debate was whether it would be here in the hospital room, or wherever Sherlock tried to go to get away from him later.

When the detective swept into the room, John had his plan prepared. He wouldn’t look over to the bed, but that was fine. John didn’t need to look into his eyes. 

He just had to get him talking. 

“Is Stephen alive?” 

“Yes.” He looked out the window, apparently absorbed in his own reflection on the black surface. 

“Good.” John waited long enough for Sherlock to fidget, probably preparing to flee. “I know you’re going to tell me how bad of an idea it is for me to be emotionally attached to you. You’ll probably start saying all sorts of rubbish and hoping that I take them to heart and leave you be any second now.”

Sherlock was looking at him now, but his face was blank. The only evidence that he was actually thinking about what John said was the way his elbow was restlessly moving side to side. “You shouldn’t.” 

“John, you –“

“I am talking, Sherlock.” Now he was looking at him and seemingly unable to stand still. He was tugging at his scarf and pulling at the wrists of his coat. When John was satisfied that he would be silent, he continued. “It doesn’t matter what is logical, because emotions aren’t. You admit that the realm of ‘sentiment’ is not one that you are familiar with, so you need to just listen to me.”

Sherlock bit his lip and John felt his heart pick up. The damned machine attached to his body didn’t let him hide it and he spared a second to give it a glare. When he looked back, Sherlock was confused. He didn’t let that stop him. “Somewhere over the last two years, I stopped being just your friend, at least on my end. But you kissed me back, so I think things may not be completely one-sided.”

After a moment spent just looking at each other, Sherlock licked his lips and then turned his back. “Your association with me has gotten you hurt on multiple occasions. You were almost killed last night. Are you prepared to risk your life for infatuation?” 

John rolled his eyes. Infatuation? He’d hit the git if the thought of standing didn’t hurt so much. “Even if I weren’t infatuated, as you say, I wouldn’t let this stop me from being your friend. Life was boring and depressing before you. Now it’s scary and it’s exciting and it’s everything that I want.” 

He looked over his shoulder and John knew he could read his determination on him. The only thing stopping John from saying the way he really felt was that he knew Sherlock would run away at the first mention of love. So he would bide his time and only let it out when he knew Sherlock would take it well.

Until then, Sherlock was an excellent detective, but not psychic. He could say it in his mind as often as he liked. He was in love with this frustrating, irritating man in front of him. 

His pleasure at being able to say this in his head was swiftly dismantled as soon as Sherlock turned around. He looked destroyed, though John couldn’t have said what lent the impression. There was nothing he could think to do except hold his hand up toward the detective, hoping he would grab it and let John be the comfort he needed.


	18. Chapter 18

Sixty seven stitches held his stomach together, in his skin and in his abdominal muscles. Anywhere between forty two and sixty three muscles pulled his face into a frown of disappointment, Sherlock could not be sure without dissecting him. He was curiously unwilling to contemplate it. 

While he was thinking, the hand dropped to the bed. Sherlock felt the sudden urge to speak. The words came out with no real thought on his part, thick with some unnamed emotion he had no hope to understand. "You look for certain things when you are with a woman. Understanding and generosity, and other _pleasant_ attributes. I do not think your desires could have changed much and I cannot give those things to you, even if I wanted to. I do not work that way. I don’t know how to give you what you want.” 

He had no idea what his face was telling John, but it was obviously something. He had narrowed his eyes, searching Sherlock’s face, before they widened in surprise. What could he possibly be surprised about? "There's a reason that all those women never worked out, Sherlock. Obviously I was looking for the wrong things." 

"That doesn't mean I have what you need, John!” Honestly, how stupid could he be? Sherlock had always thought he was smarter than Anderson, but as of right now, he doubted his earlier assessment. “I will never have tea ready for you when you come home. I will not stop ignoring you and I won't stop being in danger. I will always put you in danger because of who I am."

"When did I ask those things of you? I somehow fell in love with you when you weren't doing that, Sherlock. Why would I need those things when the women that did them never got more than my affection?" John threw his hands up and grimaced when the gesture jostled the IV in his arm. 

Sherlock’s mind had stopped at the word love. He knew that it was nothing more than hormones and oxytocin and dopamine, a reaction in the brain brought on by meaningless stimuli. John, however put great value on it. The fact that he would associate the feeling with Sherlock had done odd things with his heart. It felt as if it quivered instead of beating and his stomach felt empty. 

For once, he had no idea what to do. How was he intended to cope with this? Almost, barely, he wished to be average. The small, almost useless brains that others seemed to have would have made sense of this, but Sherlock did not have that. He had his own mind and it would figure this out on its own. 

John saw the turmoil that surely rested on his features and moved to sit up, gasping and paling as soon as the stitches pulled. It was the ones in his muscles that hurt the worst, he was sure. Sherlock rushed forward and pressed a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down to the bed, taking a second to stare at his hand as it felt like it were burning from the contact. "You said love." He hadn’t thought he was going to speak until he felt his vocal cords vibrating. 

John searched his face for a moment before breaking out into a grin. Before Sherlock could deduce what had prompted the reaction, John had his fingers wrapped in Sherlock’s hair, pulling it taut and sending shivers across his shoulder blades. Sherlock wondered at the reaction before John pulled him and their lips meant. 

Sherlock remembered the first kiss in the bathroom doorway. It had been sudden and unexpected but it was in an entirely different way than this was. He let himself stop analyzing it and found that he knew exactly what to do. His lips opened and his tongue slipped inside the other man’s mouth, tasting everything he could. 

John bit back a yelp, and Sherlock assumed his stitches had been stressed. Sherlock adjusted his body but kept his lips pressed down. 

Slowly, he could feel thoughts trailing out of his mind. They were being replaced with blessed peace, the likes of which he had only found before in a syringe. His thoughts weren’t rolling and scrambling and connecting everything, just concentrating on the way John’s lips felt just a little chapped but softer than any other’s he had kissed. There was just a hint of stubble rubbing against his chin and a warm hand was tangled in his hair and resting on his scalp. There was another hand pressed against his neck, and he had never understood what people meant when they said their skin tingled, but his did now. He felt it in every neuron and he welcomed the release. 

Before he realized it, John had pulled back and there was a smile on his face. Sherlock looked down and realized that his hands were fisted in the hospital gown. For a moment, he felt a building terror that his body had done something without his express permission, but then he got lost in the suddenly brilliant eyes in front of him. He gave a shy smile and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

Maybe sentiment wasn’t so awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are satisfied. :]


End file.
